Triptych
by JestaAriadne
Summary: "What in Heaven's name happened to you? To -you-, I mean." Two times when no one came to Poland's rescue, and one time they did. Post-Partitions. Warnings: descriptions of violence and rape.


**Notes: **(This is in the same continuity as _Arrival_ and _Helpess_ - it's the exact and honest answer to the question of what did happen to Poland - but otherwise not related and you don't have to have read those first.)

Russia, Prussia and Austria are _not nice_ in this. Compared to what you might be expecting: especially Prussia and Austria. I don't think it is gratuitous really but this _is_ dark so heed the warnings. I was aiming to explore the personalities as presented in the series but through some extreme scenarios. There are a few more notes at the end. History is sort of there, in the background.

* * *

"I don't like you, Poland," Russia tells him. "I think that's strange."

By this time, Poland is no longer speaking.

"I am strongest, they call me a Power now, which means everyone should be friends with me. But I don't want to be friends with you, I don't like you. I like Lithuania…"

Poland twitches involuntarily in his chains.

"…He makes me feel good. He is nice to me, and we are happy."

Is it better or worse if this is true? At least he'd be safe. Then it isn't true, anyway. There is no _safety_ for them.

"But I don't like you. You make my hands itch."

_I am not afraid of you, _Poland thinks. His minds repeats it, over and over like the Paster Noster. (When Prussia caught him saying those words aloud, he had seven fits, took him by the hair and smashed his face into the floor for every syllable. Probably he didn't like to be reminded of his God whilst he was doing what he was doing.) _I'm not afraid, I'm not I'm not._

You can't keep me locked up here forever, he'd said, much earlier, Someone will notice—

Russia had tilted his chin up to look into his face, as if to check if he was being deliberately obtuse, and then said kindly, "No, I don't think so. Or, maybe, it's possible. But certainly, you see, no one would care."

"I think maybe that after all Prussia likes you," Russia reflects now, although he doesn't even understand the black heart of that particular joke. "But I try, I do try, and… no. I cannot do it. I don't like you."

By this time, the chains are hardly necessary.

"…but, I do like hurting you…" Russia adds, and sets about him with knives.

* * *

Poland tries to fall back in his mind and remember, remember home, remember Liet, remember harvests and Christmas Eves, remember battles long enough past to be glorious legend.

But he remembers instead more recent battles, remembers fleeing in panic and shouting in the Sejm, he remembers.

He remembers Prussia—

_fall back, fall back!_

* * *

He remembers Austria pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing.

"I am ringed about by fools and madmen." Austria turns to the doctor's assistants who are carefully cutting away Poland's shirt, so badly is it caked with dirt and blood. Poland sits still on the table and stares blankly in front of him. "Do what you can to ease his pain. And see if you can get him to stop _shivering_ like that. Good God, Prussia…" Austria shakes his head.

"As for me, it's nothing personal, Poland; I just wanted your land. Since the opportunity presented itself."

* * *

Austria is sitting at his bedside, watching him, when he wakes from feverish sleep the next afternoon.

"How are you feeling?"

"Why do you care?" Poland croaks.

Austria huffs, as if to say, Pardon me for being courteous.

Poland half-sits and rubs his reddened wrists — for some reason, of all his injuries they're the most aggravating right now.

"Don't do that," Austria tuts. "You're not helping. Here." He unscrews a jar of some ointment stuff and rubs a little into each wrist, his adroit fingers tenderly massaging the abused flesh.

Poland blinks at him, uncomprehending. Is this part of a dream? "Why are you…?" he mumbles.

Austria doesn't reply at once, only continues his gentle ministrations. He sighs, takes a reflective pause. Then he lifts Poland's hand to his lips and kisses it.

"We are not all such monsters," he murmurs.

Poland's heart drops.

"I-I don't," he stammers.

"Come now," Austria continues, softly, softly and his grip on Poland's arm becomes velvet and steel — "you would not be so ungrateful."

The breath Poland is holding just flees his body, like hope. There's no sound but the rustle of the bedclothes as Austria moves on top of him.

* * *

—He remembers Prussia, who had him first.

* * *

The cell door opened and closed with barely a sound. Prussia had the latches and hinges oiled especially for their guest.

He sets down his lantern in a corner and walks forward to where Poland is curled on the floor, asleep; well, who can blame him, it was a long fight.

Prussia has lain awake half the night, and in the lantern light he's pale, paler than usual, standing in his clean white clothes as of old. He rocks on his heels, as if he's still thinking, reflecting, turning the idea over before… gradually, deliciously… he acquiesces.

"Poland." He nudges him with the toe of his boot.

Poland startles awake and sits up, squinting through the gloom. "What the hell do you want?"

Prussia kicks him in the face. Poland sprawls and scrambles forwards again, clutching his nose, blood streaming through his fingers. Prussia's quickly crouched down and grabbed his matted hair, pulling him up so they're eye to eye.

"You on your knees is a start," he hisses.

"Nod about to hab—ppen," Poland retorts, the words distorted around a broken nose and a mouth full of blood.

"…Hn. That's what you think." Then he starts speaking very low and very fast. "That's what you think, but, no, you're not so stupid that you can't understand the situation here, are you? This time I've got you good, no filthy sneak-thief to rescue you now, and you're going to pay for all those years you played with me, tried to corrupt me — you were always so damn coy, wouldn't even look me in the face—"

"What is _wrong_ with you?" Poland cries. "Apart from the bit where you're a dirty traitor and—"

A hand at his throat tightens and chokes out the rest of the tirade.

"How about you shut up, _Poland_," Prussia growls through grit teeth, spraying spittle into Poland's eyes. "How about you shut your mouth and _listen_ for once in your worthless life. I used to admire you. God! I was such an idiot. There was a time, I would have done anything for you."

"Oh yeah?" Poland gasps, "like make an alliance and then totally renege on it?"

_"Before that_!" Prussia shrieks. "For _years_. You never got it, did you? No, of _course_ you did. You loved teasing me, tempting me, don't pretend you didn't know what you were doing. And then, when you had me just where you wanted, you whored yourself out to that heathen, Lithuania. I bet you both had a good laugh about that, well guess who's laughing now—"

Poland swings a fist up into Prussia's stomach, making him cough and double over. As they both struggle to their feet, Poland goes for the groin with a knee, but Prussia snarls and dodges. A brief scuffle, and Prussia spins him around and slams him into a wall, one hand in his hair again pulling his head back, the other tight around his chest and arms, strong as iron. He leans close to his ear and continues as if nothing had interrupted him.

"…You know, I wouldn't want to be Lithuania now, not with the way Russia's been acting. Oh, he just loves him; all the time, talking, it's _disgusting_—"

And on that word he grabs a fistful of Poland's shirt front and yanks down, ripping it open.

"_No_—" Poland bucks, as terrified now by Prussia's words as by what's happening to him.

"—and you, sick and impure, trying to drag me down to your level, you and him both—"

"No!" He twists desperately, trying to shake Prussia off; Prussia grins and grips him harder, hand spreading over the bared skin.

Poland jerks his head back and by complete luck collides with Prussia's nose; warm blood spurts into his hair and they stagger back from the wall. Prussia grunts and swings one foot into Poland's ankle, tripping him. He falls heavily with Prussia on top of him; cracking his chin against the stone floor, and feels a pop of pain around his chest like at least one rib has gone.

"Still fighting?" Prussia jeers. "Anyone would think you didn't want this, that you weren't begging for someone to come occupy you for centuries. You're nothing but a cheap—shabby—"

The last remnants of the shirt are thrown aside.

Prussia gets his own belt free, wrenches Poland's arms behind his back and binds them tightly.

"Now you stop it. You stay down and _take_ what you deserve." He tugs down Poland's trousers. "Hey, really I bet you enjoy this, right?" he whispers. His fingers dance on the very edge. "I bet you get off on this—"

"—stop," Poland gasps, voice finally breaking.

"No."

Poland sobs in agony, and Prussia laughs. He whimpers and babbles out his prayers, and Prussia is _furious_. He grinds Poland's broken nose into the floor.

It isn't enough, it isn't nearly enough to distract from the truly fantastic pain as Prussia enters him.

Prussia doesn't stop or let up for a moment, uses him hard and rough, spitting out his hate with every thrust,_ you're vile —you're nothing — I'll make you nothing — I'll make you see — you thought you could get away with doing this to me?_

At the last, Poland almost blacks out, the crazy lantern shadows and the half-moon shadows on the wall melding into the fireworks of pain behind his eyelids.

He comes round and turns his head to see Prussia above him, flushed, panting, putting his clothes back in order.

"… only wish I could've seen your face," he's saying. "How'd it feel, Poland? Oh well. Next time, eh?"

He picks up the lantern and leaves.

His arms still bound, Poland slowly drags up first one leg then the other to his chest. He stays there curled up, mind racing to nowhere, whole body spasming as he hears again and again Prussia's taunts in his ear.

When the door opens again, he scrambles backwards into a corner faster than thought. But it isn't Prussia.

They ask no questions and they do not try to hurt him. They hardly look at him at all. They take cursory care of his injuries, at least the first few times.

They dress him in fine clothes, which Prussia leaves as torn and bloodied as the body beneath the next time he visits.

_It's nice that you have money to throw around on dress-up like this_. Poland saves up barbs for later. _Is this whole twisted game like a normal thing here? Exactly what do your people think of your pursuits? How much do you pay those guards to keep quiet?_

It isn't much good. Sometimes Prussia gags him, and sometimes one of his best lines is transmuted into a helpless scream.

_You pray the rosary with those fingers? Oh I forgot, Catholicism was too much like hard work for you, wasn't it. You know what though, I can't think of any versions of God that'd go along with this—_

That usually gets a reaction.

_IT'S YOUR FAULT! _Prussia screeches. _You slut, you make me do this._

As time passes, he starts to get creative. Riding crop, sharps. Once he gives Poland a practice sword and laughs at his attempts to defend himself. After that, as usual, Prussia has Poland's hands bound, because he will keep trying to scratch.

But whatever Prussia is trying to achieve here, whatever peace he is trying to attain, it isn't working. He becomes more and more enraged, more and more vicious.

Until Poland is shaking constantly and can't stop, can't think, even when Prussia's gone.

Until: _Enough_, says Austria, and sweeps in to take Poland to his house.

Austria is disgusted at what he finds, at Prussia shrieking and rambling, practically foaming at the mouth; it is unbecoming, violent and ugly. Poland clearly has a bad effect on Prussia's morals, on his self-control, and in any case Austria can't in conscience leave Poland there now he's seen his condition. It is not how things should be done.

* * *

_and we know that God makes all things work together for good for those who love Him._  
lord i believe help thou mine unbelief  
lord i believe  
help thou my

help me

help me.

* * *

Gradually, carefully, Austria dismantles Poland's resistance. Presses him down into the luxuriant pillows and kisses him open. When Poland panics into struggle, Austria is not above leaning all his weight on his injured shoulder until his vision fuzzes and he subsides. Simpler this way, cleaner. No fuss. All the while _gentle_, kissing, caressing, methodically stripping him bare piece by piece, exploring every inch of skin. He clucks at the mess Prussia has made and moves on. He is kind enough to once again use the contents of the jar that he brought with him.

He would not, his attitude suggests, be so indecorous as to _pursue_ these pleasures, but he will now avail himself to the full. Since the opportunity presents itself. He sinks into Poland with a low growl of contentment.

When he is done, he tucks the covers neatly back around Poland and kisses his pale brow, where the sweat stands out like dew.

"All my hopes and prayers for your swift recovery."

* * *

Austria would like to make it clear that he is not at Russia's beck and call, that sending Poland to him ("It only seems fair. Everyone but me has already had a turn…") is no meek obedience to his whim.

Still, he clearly feels as if he's breaking the terms of their tacit agreement (_I keep you from Prussia and Russia and you warm my bed and don't embarrass me by crying—I'll even be gentle with you_).

If that's a shadow of something like _apology_ on his face, Poland is totally going to kill him. Somehow.

Maybe it's merely distaste for Russia.

Austria makes another attempt at justifying himself.

"I can't keep you in my house," he explains. "You stir up trouble. No—you _are_ trouble."

_When_? Poland asks in the wretched darkness of his own mind, _When was I trouble? I didn't do anything to spite you._

Then he thinks,_ But I would have. Give me time and I would have. I would have set the household on its ears, or pulled the whole thing down, and laughed in your face, you and your precious nobility. So. Aren't you a bright spark, Austria._

* * *

I am not afraid of you.  
I am not afraid

I'm not

What is the _point_, Poland wonders bitterly, in not being afraid, when it's going to happen you just the same?

* * *

Days to weeks to months turn.

Russia feeds him very little and talks meditatively about bricking up the door. Because it seems he is to be murdered, if they can manage it. It has been deemed necessary to abolish everything which could possibly revive the memory of the existence of the Kingdom of Poland.

How would it be done? All in one day, or, he wouldn't put it past Russia to come back each visit with a single brick and a trowel of mortar. And then, does the air run out first, or what? And then, is it Death? If he wakes to life again here in the dark in the stale air… How many times. How many years. _No one will come for you, because no one cares._

Stop thinking of it. Russia won't really. He wouldn't. Poland wishes he'd stop _talking_ about it.

"Why are you so quiet now?" Russia complains, as he sharpens his tools. "You used to be so noisy, always noisy, it was annoying. I didn't like your talking but some of the sounds were interesting. Lithuania talks to me, he says what I want him to say, most of the time. Hmm. Not always. But we have a lot of time to go."

Poland tries and tries to pray but even in his head the words won't come out right.

_The Lord giveth and the Lord_ — but Lord you can't, you can't take him away from me — he kicks against the goads — _no_ —

I'm alone, I'm alone.

Russia's voice: _I like you, Lithuania…_

His own: _Liet, your face is hilarious. _ Lithuania with his funny face, with all his wonderful faces. Intent, and the ancient wildness of wolves in his eye as he gazed out over the battlefield or over the chessboard — _is it any wonder I cheated_? Brow furrowed but calm as they studied Greek and Hebrew together; Poland had been half-annoyed and half-proud at how fast he'd picked it up. Liet's face all totally shocked at the least thing — well, less and less; as time went by he got used to the things Poland did so he really had to _try_ to make him laugh, to make him groan. Liet's eyes green concealing depths of amber. It had taken him years to get a good look at those eyes, it was too much, he was too shy. Lithuania peaceful in sleep, his breathing soft, heartbeat steady as the seasons.

Lithuania's face crumpled, his body immobile in the reddening snow.

If he's talking to Russia, at least he's talking. At least he's alive.

If that is an 'at least'. Poland's less sure now.

* * *

It is untidy and untoward, sudden and heart-soaring as all miracles must be. It's like that bit in The Acts of the Apostles — "Get up quickly! Wrap your cloak around you and follow me!" — they are angels, _angels_, although angels probably don't need to club guards over the head, and he doesn't _have_ a cloak anymore…

Poland hardly remembers anything of the escape until he is breathing the fresh night air. He's all to pieces.

One of his angels stands by, steadies him and stops him from collapsing while the others see to the horses.

"We will always come for you," the angel tells him, "While there is breath in our bodies, _always_. Whatever happens."

"We'd die for you," says another.

"…please…" Poland murmurs brokenly, "please don't…" Then, "—_did_ anyone, did anyone, on the way here—"

"It's alright. Shh, shh, it's alright." Does this man, this angel, this blessed child of his, have children of his own? Because he stoops to enfold Poland in his arms, strokes his hair and makes him feel safe and loved for the first time in so long.

No time now. He's _free_.

"Can you ride?" someone asks.

Poland considers his lacerated hands. Gloves, maybe, will help. Well. He'll hardly need the use of his hands. He's a damn good rider.

…And anyway, with these by his side, he'd happily march a hundred miles on an empty stomach and a broken leg.

_March on, beloveds._

These are tears of joy.

"Let's go, friends."

* * *

**Notes:**

* "I just wanted your land": see also, to stop your scary reforms before they destroy me, to avoid war with Russia if we can sort it out this way instead…

* Prussia and the Commonwealth signed an Alliance in _1790_. Ye-eah.

* "occupy" as slang for sexual penetration - used earlier than this story is set, technically.

* A whole bundle of Bible refs you can whack into a search I guess?

* SUBTLE ANACHRONISTIC REFERENCES TO ANTHEM why yes those might be there.

* And, 'triptych', because three imprisonments and because no one gave me a better title.

**Brief character notes:**

Austria: decorous to the point almost of passivity, but an Empire at this point; pragmatic, unsentimental (all those diplomatic marriages), gentile, but not going to deny himself pleasures that are offered to him. Disapproves of both Prussia and Russia.

Russia: everyone keeps quoting "not malicious just extremely scary" so let's try and square that with what we actually see him too. Childishness definitely comes into it. His specific interest in Lithuania (in hetalia) in a way that we never see him interested in Poland - which is worse, for him to like you or not like you. Not necessarily very interested in sex, at this time at least.

Prussia: _oh-kay._ arrogant gleeful self-confidence + conflicted and somewhat guilt-ridden about sex + extremely religious past(/present?) + likes fighting. Used to hang out a lot with Poland, next seen aiming a sword at his head. A bit of a narrative of always trying to possess/'save'/'correct' Poland. Not a fan of Lithuania.

Poland himself is more subdued than usual but I hope I've shown _why_...


End file.
